Living Testament
And Will. There he is,
rubbing shoulders with
Gareth Gates.
jewel case to jewel case
with nothing rare or
precious
about it – except
attitude.
Some remember the
blubbering,
and all that stammers
becoming stripped of
glamour
that no longer gleams,
but not many of you, it
seems -
given the grime that
collects
under my fingernails
should I handle these
rejects.
Dido, thank you for
another one;
there's ships that have gone
down
to escape grinding
boredom,
and you can get your
fucking eye
off that telescope,
Tunstall,
you’ve learnt nothing that
bears
scrutiny – go and join
Hucknall –
where something’s got him
stopped.
Behold more Sandi Thom,
confused
by all the smiling,
pointing, laughing
at the heap of shite
that’s lining
dusty boxes – another load
dropped
off in the congested
Charity Shop;
not much goodwill stored
here,
just some struggling space
being pulled under by poor
taste -
and let’s not even get
started
on Bryn Teflon and the
three tenners,
you parted with to
purchase
his palm-stroked, pinched
face
to signify depth but betray
space.
Between the ears? Could be
that,
if that’s all there is, if
it’s enough -
but the real question
sleeping rough
on the streets, begging
for scraps
is who the fuck bought all
this crap,
and what does it testify
to a nation’s
brains, adjusted for inflation?
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